God Plus Nothing is Enough

It was the Christmas season, many years ago. I had agreed to attend a Steve Green concert at a local church one evening in an attempt to elicit a spark of interest in the holiday. I was despondent over the loss of twins at seventeen weeks and so enmeshed in the grief of what might have been that I was incapable of giving thanks for the numerous blessings that still surrounded me. 

I was being held captive by the enemy in the Garden. All I desired was a piece of seemingly good fruit from this one tree, and I was incapable of tasting anything else. Grief had become anger, and anger had morphed into the all-consuming bitterness of an ungrateful heart. 

I recall the festive red and green decorations and the tang of the pine boughs scenting the sanctuary. I remember how the brass of the live orchestra flashed with reflected light. I was aware of the skill of the assembled chorus as music that once gave me such joy resonated around me. Yet I felt nothing. I was like the dwarves of CS Lewis' Last Battle sitting at the great, heavenly banquet and tasting only sawdust.

Then Steve Green spoke. 

He quietly addressed the audience with compassion and brought a transparent, startling message that at first glance did not align with the pageantry and abundance of the Christmas season: God plus nothing is enough. Everything we had could be lost. People, possessions, and position could vanish in a moment. All that we value, all those who we hold most dear, all the things that give us the illusion of security or the fleeting sensation of pleasure could--and many times would in the course of our lifetime--vanish. And, if we held on to them too tightly instead of clinging to the Cross, all that we are in our created wonder and purpose, could vanish along with them. 

God plus nothing is enough.

Wow. That was radical. Did I believe that? Could I thank the LORD for all that I had--my husband, my children, my health, my security, my possessions, my freedoms, my life--and freely entrust it all to Him to do with as He wished? Would I still love and follow Him if everything in the Garden of my life withered? If my health failed? If my husband died? Worse yet, if my children died? If our finances failed and my security vanished? If my freedoms were lost? Would I still praise Him in the hour of those losses? 

I wanted to.

So I prayed to the LORD and gave everyone and everything back to Him with childlike faith. I wanted to be thankful for His presence in the Garden with me once again. And, as I was carried out of the church by the joyful tide of Believers, I began to feel the stirrings of peace and hope in my heart once more.

How are you doing this holiday season? Have you lost your home to fire or flood? Has a relationship you cherished ended due to death, divorce, or differences? Have you experienced a financial correction or reversal? Are you fearful of the future? Is your job situation tenuous? Is your health suddenly failing? If so, you are in a perfect position to experience the wholeness of life in the center of His will. He is the Alpha and Omega, the One who created and endowed you with all the gifts you possess and the One to whom you will someday return. No one loves your more or cares so tenderly about the details of your life. He can be trusted with your today and all your tomorrows.

Let go of the tree and cling to the Cross. Rediscover peace and joy this Christmas season.

Kay O'Hara
November 2016

Falling... Into Grace

Two serious health issues I have observed in the elderly as they approach the end of life are difficulty swallowing and frequent falls.

I find myself holding my breath when I see an order for a swallowing evaluation in a patient. The inability to swallow properly can be a temporary setback, but sometimes it is not. Unfortunately, once we lose the ability to swallow, our options become limited: a feeding tube (rarely a good choice) or comfort measures and the opportunity to say "goodbye" to those we love. 

Similarly, when falls enter into the picture, medical interventions may improve the quality of life for a season, but the majority of elderly patients who fall will have another fall within six months. Some can be serious--even fatal. Like swallowing issues, the circumstances behind frequent falls often herald the beginning of the end for geriatric patients.

I received a call at the front desk one morning from a patient who needed assistance setting up her breakfast tray. The tech and nurse were busy in an isolation room, so I went to see if I could help. 

As I entered the room, I met a charming patient in her mid-eighties, who had been hospitalized after a terrible fall. She had a massive contusion and a row of stitches across her forehead. Most of her face was swollen and bruised. I introduced myself and bent over to gently take her frail hand in mine. Tears welled up in her eyes, and I asked her if she was in pain and needed her nurse.

"No," she said as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I just hate being here and looking like this!"

I smiled at her and said," I understand. But I would give anything to have your beautiful head of hair. It is so thick and such a lovely shade of silver. Not a curl is out of place!" I marveled. 

A faint smile passed over her face, revealing a set of flawless dentures that the dental hygienist in me could not help but admire. They were a work of art. 

Miss Sally* struggled to sit up, so we worked together for a few moments to get her situated. I began a dialogue about what was on her tray and asked her where she would like to begin.

Discomfort and frustration prompted more tears, so I stopped opening containers and asked what I could do to make things better.

"I'm really alright," she replied. "I'm just so frustrated that I can't do for myself. I've been independent my entire life, and hate asking for help. I've become such a burden." she said with bitterness.

I silently asked the LORD for help and thought for a moment.

"Miss Sally," I said gently, taking her hand again. "I understand what you are saying. It is amazing that you have been able to live alone at home for so long. I know you are proud of that, but your body is getting tired. This is a natural part of life. But instead of thinking about yourself as a burden, I would like for you to consider something else entirely."

She looked up at me expectantly.

"This new season in your life is a blessing. Your circumstances are an opportunity for others to exercise compassion, perform acts of service, and learn how to grow older with dignity. Your sickbed is now a ministry to others. Your family and friends need this experience of caring for you in order to grow."

She did not break eye contact with me as I said this and gripped my hand afresh with hope. 

"I never thought of it like that," she reflected.

A few moments later, I resumed preparing her tray and addressing her preferences. By the time I returned with a couple of packets of sugar for her oatmeal, she was tucking into her food. 

"Good for you!" I encouraged.

She smiled up at me and said, "I need my strength. I've got work to do."

The next day, I was walking down the hall and heard a chorus of laughter from Miss Sally's room. I poked my head in and looked around. An assortment of pleasant people were gathered around her and visiting. Miss Sally turned to look at me and smiled. 

The transformation in her face was startling. She looked like she was a week into healing from her injury. "Why, Miss Sally, you look marvelous!" I enthused.

"Makeup is a wonderful thing," she chortled with a wink at one of her granddaughters.

She reached out her hand to me, and I took it in mine. "This is my friend, Kay," she said by way of introduction to her family. 

"I'm having a good day today," she said when she looked back at me. She squeezed my hand strongly and smiled. "I'm going to have another one again tomorrow, too." 

"I am so glad," I replied. After a minute, I took my leave of this happy crowd and closed the door. 

Thank you, LORD, I thought. And thank you, Miss Sally. You have no idea how much I needed you this week.

*not her real name

The Gray Parade

I shivered with excitement as I watched the elephants emerge from the train cars one by one, steam rising off their broad gray backs. They waited impatiently for all to be assembled, like so many children lining up for recess. Back and forth they swayed from foot to foot touching one another lightly with their trunks until the signal was given. Then it was time.

The ground shook beneath my feet as the living wall of massive beasts approached, lumbering three abreast. Men with ironclad goads jogged alongside. With ears flapping and trunks rhythmically swaying, the elephants obediently picked up the pace for the long march from the railroad yard through the heart of Asheville. Though I longed to get as close to them as I possibly could, I instinctively stepped farther back from the edge of the elevated concrete platform on which I was standing. If I lost my balance, I would be crushed in an instant. They were enormous creatures.

The air was filled with the unfamiliar sounds of elephants grumbling and occasionally squealing like trumpets cut off in mid-measure. Steam billowed in clouds from their mouths, only to be immediately swept away as they passed through the vapors into the bitter cold of a dull February morning. I closed my eyes and inhaled the barnyard smell of hay and manure, overlaid with the scent of elephant musk. They passed swiftly by at my feet, wearing dusty capes of dried dung, sprinkled with bright flecks and stems of pale yellow hay like so much glitter upon their bristling shoulders and ridged backbones. “How did they get all that up on their backs?” I wondered in amazement. As if in answer to my unspoken question, one extended the probing finger of its trunk into the debris on the ground and flung it up over its back. 

A handler spoke sharply in a language I did not understand. Gunther Gebel-Williams, the Lord of the Rings himself, was dressed in common work clothes and strode alongside the largest elephant of all! His hand rested companionably on its flank as they swiftly moved out of sight. Such a pace! A small elephant brought up the rear, holding on to its mother’s tail for dear life. Distracted, he looked around and briefly let go. Suddenly, she trumpeted in annoyance, causing the gray parade to falter for a moment.The youngster squeaked in surprise and quickly caught back up, clutching her rope-like tail in his trunk once again. 

I smiled as they vanished into the morning fog, headed from the river up the hill toward the bowels of the civic center. The Greatest Show on Earth had arrived and brought the plains of Africa to the Smoky Mountains.

Kay O'Hara

February 9, 2015

Tales of Sweet William: Love Looks Like a License Plate

There were two bonuses that year.

The first arrived at the regular time, though quite unexpectedly. 2001 had been a devastating year for many large construction firms. For Gallagher Electric, which was a smaller company, the first quarter was so light, Bill’s boss released him for six weeks to take the children and me on an extended camping trip throughout the Mid-Atlantic States. This was unprecedented freedom for a project manager working in commercial construction. It was a sign of lean economic times, so we had had no expectation of a bonus.

Yet the first bonus came anyway. It was a welcome additional check that retired a chunk of debt and gave us some breathing room. We were a family of eight by then, living humbly by choice on one income in less than twelve hundred square feet with no basement. Every dollar mattered, and we were thankful.

The second check arrived in defiance of the horrors that transpired on 9/11. Bill had brought another large job in on time and well under budget that fall. “You’ve made me a rich man again this year,” his boss said appreciatively. Bill gratefully folded up the additional check, tucked it into his back pocket and shook Jim Gallagher’s hand.

We thanked God for providing additional funds and set the money aside for a few weeks while we prayerfully considered the possibilities. After much discussion, we agreed to tithe off the top and divide the remainder in half. The first half would go to savings. The second half would be a down payment on a more reliable used vehicle. 

Since Bill endured a long daily commute in a beat up Chevvy S-10 truck with 400,000 miles and no air conditioner, I was more than ready to go truck shopping with him. He, on the other hand, never questioned our need for a larger, safer van for the kids and me. Bill was immovable in his decision to buy one.  

After much research, we located a used fifteen passenger van at a dealership up in Tennessee. It was a year-old fleet vehicle with forty thousand miles and a reasonable price tag. Bill dubbed the forest green van, “Ranger,” dropped a hitch and electronic brakes on it for the pop-up, and we were ready to go camping in style. All that was missing was a tag.

Bill swung by the DMV after work one afternoon to register the van and pick up the new license plate. He burst into the kitchen afterwards, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Kay, come outside and see the new tag I got for the van!” he exclaimed with a huge grin.

I dried my hands and joined him with a puzzled expression. We had bandied about the idea of a custom tag, but they aren’t a same-day item. You have to fill out a form and wait weeks for it to be delivered. What on earth?

 “Close your eyes!” Bill insisted with barely contained glee. He stood in my way until I complied, then became an escort for my blindness until we were in the driveway.

“Now look!”

I opened my eyes. All I saw was a standard Georgia wildlife tag with quail and some greenery on it, sporting the motto, “Give Wildlife a Chance.” While the green nicely matched the paint job on the van, and the motif would fit when we hauled our camper, it seemed pretty ordinary to me.

I turned to Bill, puzzled.

He grinned back. “Don’t you see?”

I shook my head.

He gently turned me around and pointed at the tag. “Look again. See what it says?”

I studied the tag…

4AQ61

…but was still clueless.

Bill’s excitement was uncontainable.

“4AQ61!” he exclaimed. “’For a queen, six kids, and one man who loves them!’” he chortled, swinging me around in in the driveway as the children looked on and giggled.

It was the perfect tag.

Four weeks later, Bill was gone, but his legacy lives on when we tell stories like this one. So, Happy Valentine's Week, my children. Your daddy sure did love you... and so do I. 

The Personal Testimony of Kay O'Hara

A God Who Determines the Times

Bill and I stood perfectly still beneath the glaring overhead lights. We looked like players in a game of statues, motionless in the act of dressing warmly. The doorbell rang again and our dogs, a pair of Afghan hounds, came hurtling past us, springing up against the front door and foyer glass in a frenzy of excited barking. The straps of my motorcycle helmet slipped from nerveless fingers. I cringed and made a wild grab for the visor. The helmet bounced once, went spinning across the parquet floor, and then crashed against the doorjamb with a thunk.

Panic stricken, I glanced over at Bill, who had one arm in and one arm out of his leather biking jacket. “Oh, MAN!” I hissed. “They must know we’re here, now!" 
                                             _______________                                   

Defining moments alter history. They impact decisions, purpose, even destiny. The choice to open a door or leave the house a few minutes earlier can forever change the future—for good or for bad. In a random world, this realization is paralyzing. However, in a world where faith would have us believe that the LORD knows the number of hairs upon our heads, the next words we will speak, and the exact moment of our deaths, we are free to receive His perfect will and trust in His tender care, timing, and omniscience. 

I was not reared in a Christian home, but I was inexplicably born with a “God magnet” installed in my heart. From an early age, I gravitated toward the LORD. I pursued Him up trees on the playground at recess, tramped after Him in the mountains on Sundays, and wrote letters to Him in my journal late at night. He was like the wind: evident in His awesome power but completely invisible.

In my junior year of high school, I brought home a paperback Good News Bible from a motel room after a Latin Club trip. I carefully printed out Scripture verses onto my bedroom walls alongside newspaper clippings of boys I admired and posters I had collected. What did these phrases mean? I read them over and over, but for reasons I could not understand, I was “looking through a glass darkly."

In college, I spent my weekends exploring area churches in Eastern Kentucky. Dinner on the grounds, Mass, snake handlings, liturgy, Bible study, speaking in tongues, exorcisms and outdoor baptisms became intertwined in my confused concept of what it meant to be a Christian. During the school week, however, liberal faculty members steadily chipped away at my faith. Man had clearly evolved. Premarital sex was a smart move. Same sex relationships were evidence of upward thinking. Euthanasia and abortion were acceptable choices.

My soul recoiled in dismay, but I had nowhere else to turn. How could so many well-educated people be wrong? As the months passed, I lost the ability to resist their influence. While my intellectual awareness of the potentially damaging consequences of smoking, alcohol, and drugs shielded me from disaster, my desire to be loved did not serve me well. After two unremarkable years of school and a heartbreaking relationship with an upperclassman, I lost the vision for my future. In its place, I chose the easiest possible “out” at that time—marriage. Perhaps in this controlled environment I could regain my sense of purpose and decode the meaning of life.

Within a year, I became a mother, and the impact of motherhood caused me to renew my search for kindness, love, and God. My spouse was an intelligent but faithless man whose inability to love or comprehend a loving God did not dovetail with my own desire to seek such things. We separated a few months after our son reached his second birthday, and I found myself back on my parent’s doorstep as a single mother with no vocation and no vision for the future.

My relationship with Bill O’Hara began that year, in 1980. He was a tall, handsome neighbor whose kindness immediately drew me to keep company with him whenever I could. Bill encouraged me to return to school and earn a degree in dental hygiene. He also generously provided a strong hand in any practical need I had. After living together for a season, we were married on his parents' anniversary in November of 1982. By the time we reached our second year of marriage, however, we were in trouble. We had no anchor to help us ride out the storms of life, and the same brokenness that had undermined our previous marriages had followed us into this one.

One night, in absolute despair, I told Bill that it no longer mattered to me if we lost our health, life, or possessions. I had reached the place where I would do anything to know God in a very real and personal way.

“We won’t make it another year without something meaningful at its center, and I think it must be God,” I wept

“We’ll work this out together,” Bill promised.

The spring of 1984 found us visiting every church within reasonable driving distance of our home. We searched for the LORD for months. One Sunday night in October, my eye caught sight of a piece of paper tucked into the pew rack of a local PCA Presbyterian church. It was a leaflet about a missionary the church supported. As I drew it out, the image of an older man with a serious, open face caught my attention. I began to read.

The biography of Mickey Raia swept over me. He was a New York City Police chief who had been shot through the heart, lived to tell about it, had a conversion experience, retired from the force, and entered seminary late in life. He was now serving as a missionary in South America. What a life-changing story I held in my hands!

“If we could just talk to this Mickey Raia,” I said earnestly to Bill that night, “I’ll bet he can answer my questions and tell us how to become true Christians.”

Bill agreed with me, but after reading the pamphlet, we knew this could never happen. Mickey Raia was out of the country in South America, and his home church was hundreds of miles away in south Florida. We would have to find our answers elsewhere. That night, I decided to “throw out a fleece” like Gideon did in the Bible.

“How about this?” I proposed. “God can do anything, anytime, right? Well, let’s give Him until midnight on Wednesday to prove to us in some meaningful way that He is real and actually cares about the hairs on our heads like He says, OK?”

Monday passed. We waited eagerly for a sign. On Tuesday, I was a nervous wreck at work all day. Wednesday evening, we sat at home and waited. At 11:45 PM, I opened the front door in invitation and listened to the wind sift through the pines as streetlights reflected brightly on the rain-washed pavement. The grandfather clock chimed at midnight. Nothing. Finally, at 12:15 Bill got up and closed the door. We turned out the lights and walked silently back to the bedroom.

Jehovah God was not real. He was no different than the images of stone that pagans had worshipped for centuries. Jews must have robbed the tomb of Jesus’s body, after all. The Bible was historical fiction, just like my college professors had said. Darwin had been right. Mankind was the beginning and the end. From the slime of the sea to grave dust, life held no purpose. We were the victims of modern-day mythology.

I woke up with a heavy heart on Thursday morning and listlessly went through the motions of my day. “NO!” my spirit cried out. “I am certain God IS! I knew Him as a child. I believe in Him still! A silly test can’t change that!  Don’t give up!"

I returned home that evening, exhausted from the futility of my thoughts. Bill and I mechanically went about our evening routine. As we were finishing dinner around six-thirty, the telephone rang. I answered.

“Hello!” a bright feminine voice cheerily greeted me. “My name is Joyce, and I am calling from Hazelwood Presbyterian Church. We would like to come out and fellowship with you and Bill around seven this evening. Could you please give us directions to your house?”

Caught off guard by the call, I automatically responded and hung up. I looked at Bill, stunned. How many months had we been putting our names in the plate requesting a call? Three? “Too little, too late!” I vehemently spat out. “I am not about to hang around for the benefit of a bunch of do-gooders who are finally paying us a visit. Forget them!”

“You got that right,” Bill agreed. “Let’s take the bike up Asheville and grab a dozen donuts. Those people from church can ring the bell all night for all I care!”

That suited me just fine. Hazelwood was thirty minutes away, so I cleared the remains of dinner while Bill pulled the bike around front. We were in the process of suiting up when the doorbell rang. We were caught! But it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet!

“What do we do now?” I urgently whispered to Bill.

With a sigh of resignation, he removed his helmet and bent down to retrieve mine. “Let ‘em in, I guess. Maybe we can get rid of them quickly and still make it to Asheville in time.”

I took a breath and opened the door.

There, ringed by a smiling group of people, stood Mickey Raia.

“Ohhhh!” I cried out in astonishment as I rushed forward to embrace this poor, bewildered stranger on the doorstep. “I know who you are! You’re Mickey Raia, and God has sent you here to explain the Gospel to us!”

And that is exactly what He did one evening in October 1984.

God weaves the tapestry of His perfect timing with great skill and control. The series of events that transpired before Mickey Raia could stand on our doorstep were staggering. His mother had recently passed away, bringing him home from South America on furlough two weeks earlier. After settling the affairs of her estate in New York, he had to dispose of a car she had left him. Mickey decided to drive it back to Florida and donate it to his church. Since he preferred rural byways to interstates, he chose Highway 19 for part of his trip.

That Thursday afternoon, Mickey Raia’s car broke down on Highway 19-23 at the Hazelwood, North Carolina exit. As Providence would have it, there was a service garage open just down the street from Hazelwood Presbyterian Church—one of the few rural churches that supported his ministry. After leaving his car in good hands, Mickey crossed the street to call on the manse. He was invited to take his dinner with the pastor and his wife.

During the meal, a leader in Hazelwood Presbyterian’s recently established Evangelism Explosion (EE) program knocked on the door. There was a problem, it seemed. Seven visitation teams were formed that evening, but they needed one more man to complete the proper team requirements. Was the pastor available?

No. The pastor had another commitment that evening away from home.

“I’ll go with you,” Mickey said, rising from the table in the middle of his meal. After all, EE had originated at his church, Coral Ridge Presbyterian; he was trained in the method. And so, that night, seven EE teams set out to greet recent visitors to the church. Of those seven teams, God sent the group with Mickey Raia to my home. Lastly, in an era before cell phones, the LORD prompted the team to stop en route and call ahead from a pay phone just down the road. This detail effectively kept us from missing their visit.

No one but Bill knew of my longing to speak with Mickey Raia about the Gospel. No one, that is, except the LORD. He must have known that I needed Him to custom-design an unshakable, stirring testimony, one that would sustain me through all manner of trials to come. The precious, inarguable experience of my testimony comforts and reassures me daily that a loving, interactive God cares about all the details of my life.

By 1987, God had changed all my priorities. I left my career to become a full-time home educating mother of six and devoted helper to my hardworking husband. In the years that followed, the LORD continued to show His mighty hand through financial reversal, a terminal diagnosis, an extended illness, and three miscarriages. I clung to my testimony with all my might as the enemy battered our little household with challenges.

In 2001, Bill was killed by a drunk driver early one Friday morning while commuting to work… but not before he made his own clear profession of faith twelve days earlier. That knowledge has been a source of immense comfort to the children and me this past decade. You see, though we have our own hidden timetables and sense of how we would like things to be, I’m here to testify that God’s unique plan for each of us is still perfect, and He is never late.

Kay O'Hara
September 17, 2013

Preparing a Ready Answer

 

          I love talking about Jesus and will do so at the drop of a hat, but it has not always been easy for me. The most difficult time I ever had in sharing the Gospel was during an evangelism training commitment back in my mid-twenties. I was a new Believer at the time and eager to make a difference. Looking back, I must say that while I appreciated the concept, the execution of the program left a great deal to be desired. Names were gathered from visitation logs and the teams would arrange for a visit. Unfortunately, during many of those visits, our preceptor failed to carefully listen and take the spiritual temperature of our audience.  He usually mowed down our hosts, forced his testimony upon them, asked “the question,” and then demanded a decision for Christ if they did not give the appropriate response. This absolutely horrified me! We did more harm than good during such visits, and I was hesitant to share the Gospel afterwards for a long time.

Still, I could not be silent about the LORD. His name just naturally came up in any conversation that went beyond a few minutes. Over time, with spiritual maturity and careful observation of what did and didn’t work, my personal evangelism style gradually developed. God took the gift that is within me—my penchant for encouragement, my childlike faith, my love for writing and public speaking—and began teaching me more effective ways for sharing the hope that is within me.  He gave me a template for personal evangelism in 1 Peter 3: 15-16: “But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior in Christ may be ashamed of their slander.”

From that verse, I understood why my witness would be crippled and my mouth silenced when I engaged in willful disobedience. I would say nothing while opportunities to share the Gospel just passed me by, and that was not like me, but I could not bear the rants of the enemy as he rightly accused me. Only when my sin closet was swept out would I finally feel confident enough to share my faith again.

Another precept I embraced is the importance of being prepared. I realized I needed to memorize more Scripture. Sometimes it is neither possible nor appropriate to carry a Bible into a conversation, although I did buy a discreet travel Bible for those moments when more depth was needed. (Smart phones now make it possible to carry the entire Bible wherever there is a signal, but desperately surfing through one can really put a damper on spontaneity!) Most of the time, however, God drops me in the middle of situations where there is no time to prepare. A portable “memory” Bible sure does come in handy.

From my experience with the formal evangelism program I mentioned earlier, I learned how important it is to NOT force a conversation about faith. It is vital to wait for the LORD to prepare the soil first.  When I meet a patient who seems to have an evident need, I will often gently and respectfully ask, “Are you a wo/man of faith?” Many times, I will know how to proceed in conversation following their reply. Body language can also play an important role in determining receptiveness. Under no circumstances will I debate my faith with a non-Believer, however. That is no longer my style or my calling. I trust the Holy Spirit to draw people to salvation. My job is to confirm, encourage, and disciple.

And lastly, I learned the value of writing out my testimony. It’s been thirty years since I received Christ as my LORD and Savior. I’m so thankful I wrote the story down years ago while I still vividly remembered it. I have given away hundreds of copies of my testimony in my travels all over the United States and now keep one on my Sky Drive so I can share it anywhere I go. My next step, after I update my public speaking skills, is to record my testimony through a venue such as 315 Project or I Am Second. I want to make it possible for others to hear “the rest of the story” about God’s faithfulness in my life when time does not allow or I cannot be present. One day, I hope I will be able to hand out a calling card that will direct folks to my testimony video or blog site. This beggar is eager to show other hungry people where she found the Bread of Life!  

Kay O'Hara

January 19, 2014

 

Reference:

Zondervan NIV Study Bible.  Fully rev. ed.  Kenneth L. Barker, gen. ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2002. Print.

H: Is for Helena, Haircuts, and Hospitality

Thursday, September 12, 2002
Helena, Montana

Happy 78th Birthday, Daddy!

Dear Family and Friends,

Helena, Montana was not anything more on the map to us than a point along the way from Yellowstone to Glacier. This was until we happened to glimpse D & D RV Sales on the side of Interstate 15 at six-thirty in the morning.  After two weeks of having to boil hot water on the stove to wash dishes because our carbon monoxide alarm was spiking over 200 whenever we turned on our water heater, the loss of our "basement" compartment after its two latches broke back in Colorado, as well as a punch list of a dozen other minor but annoying things,  I decided we could look into a repair day for our little home on wheels.  So, after a rare feast of pancakes and sausage at Mickey D's and a photo op with a dinosaur outside a Sinclair gas station (for those of you who didn't know, this was one of my wishes on this trip-- to see a gas station dinosaur once again!), we pulled up to the gate at eight in the morning and greeted the employees as they arrived for the day.

Or at least some of them.

Two out of three mechanics were out sick.  Hmmmm.  Yep.  There was still a good chance they could get us in after noon, though.  We were next in line after a big Class A customer who had been having a really bad run of luck lately.  Wanna' give them my cell phone number and they'll call us?  All right.  Sounds good to me. 

Now then.  What to do, what to do?

I found a coupon for a teeny tiny Days Inn room just up the street and got us settled into there, unpacked what we couldn't live without, detached the trailer, and waited for the call.

Meanwhile, we took on some brochures about Helena and interviewed a few natives about the area.  Very interesting.  Helena is the capitol of Montana, and many points of interest were literally only blocks from our room.  Definitely walking distance.  And there is a historic "train" which is quite affordable and takes sightseers to "Last Chance Gulch" (where four Georgians made an attempt at a gold rush towards the end of that period of American history), all around the capitol area, and then into the district where the venerable homes of the very rich and famous were built back in the late 1800's (and since have been beautifully restored or maintained with millions of 20th Century dollars.  And the mall (important detail since Luke lost his favorite American Eagle cap in Wyoming while filming some unusual butte formations out the camper window and just can't live without it) is just right up the street from our room, too... 

Neat.

So, away we went. 

Well, it didn't take us long to realize that the capitol of Montana is about the size of Asheville, NC, and far easier to navigate, for sure.  We went everywhere.  'Specially once the RV place told us that there was no way they could get to us on Wednesday and we had our wheels back.  We went orienteering, for sure.  OK.  So what if the mall had two anchor stores (no AE) and little else?  Helena more than made up for this by having this lake a few miles back on Highway 12 where in the evening you can see 300 (or more) nesting pairs of bald eagles fishing for silver salmon just before bedtime...

By Thursday morning, when I left the camper with D&D for the day, we could have passed for natives, we were so well-acquainted with Helena and a few of its residents.  The secretary of the RV place (bless her little heart) wouldn't hear of us being on foot for the day, so she loaned us her mammoth 4x4 diesel truck (leather interior, sat six adults comfortably!) and told us to "have some fun." 

And we did.

"Whoo, whoo, WHOO!" the kids yodeled upon stepping UP into the truck.  You'd have thought I'd rented a Hummer for the day or something.  "MAN, what a truck!" Luke whistled appreciatively.  What is it about boys and heavy machinery, I want to know???

We zipped down to Wal*Mart to get Sarah's glasses adjusted (someone had stepped on them in the night), then over to AAA to pick up the tour books and maps for next week's destination (no, I'm not gonna' tell you just yet!  ~grin~), into a Cellular One dealership to pick up a charger for my cell phone (left mine at Yellowstone, I think), went grocery shopping (again), and then stopped into Capitol Barbershop for a few hours where all five of the children got new "do's."  And I do mean DO! 

At Cellular One, we quickly learned that everybody in Helena knows everybody else.  I think "Neighborhood Watch" must have its headquarters here.  Upon entering the store, I was greeted by a six foot plus strapping behemoth who said in a very no-nonsense tone of voice:

"Who in the world are you and why are you drivin' my Momma's truck?"

"You must be Luke!" I said cheerfully, with my most disarming smile, having swiftly pieced together some bits of info which I had gleaned in passing back at D & D, having a Luke, myself.  Boys and girls, details can save a life! 

Slowly.  "Yesssssssss."

"My rig is in the shop.  Your Mom loaned me the truck.  Would you happen to have a charger for this phone?" (slipping mine out of my holster, being faintly reminded of Jimmy Stewart, duels at twenty paces, and the penalty for horse thievin'...)

Big grin.  Then I was instant family.

Whew!

At Capitol Barber, we were just flat taken in.  The proprietor, it turns out, was best friends with the fellow who ownsD & D RV...   So, the stable of five beauticians and barbers turned out to give us the best Helena had to offer in coiffures.  The girls were bobbed and fluffed ('bout the most professional job I've ever paid for, and only $8 apiece, too!) within an inch of their lives.  EJ got realigned again after a year of his mother's haircuts.  And Luke... well, after two years of holding out against a wave of fashion breaking over all his young men friends, I ponied up for a haircut and...  highlights.  To take the place of the cap, dontcha' know?  ~smile~

We got some great pictures of Luke while his hair was being "pulled" through a cap (different kind of cap, boys), treated with purple paste to render it varying shades of blonde, "blowed" out to remove the possibly of those ugly oxidizing orange highlights (yes, we had a young beautician who felt it her bounden duty to educate us about the chemistry of hair, much to the girls' delight), and ~voila!~ we had ourselves a tall Justin Timberlake.

Amazing.

By that point, our rig was finished, good as new, for $43 dollars. 

We said our goodbyes, but not before we washed the secretary's truck as a big "thank you," hugged the necks of all the friendly folks from Helena we could find, and tipped everyone in that good town we came across up to Atanta's basic rate for all the goods and services we received.

One other memorable highlight of Helena (yes, I see the pun) was meeting the State Representative at Capitol Barbershop who personally thanked us for adding to the state's economy, told us that Montana could use five more upstanding kids like mine in its workforce, and proudly informed me that the Big Sky State was third in the Nation K-12 in education.  "You may want to go somewhere else for college, but come back here to raise your kids," he advised.  "You do know Georgia is dead last in academics, don't you?" he said with a blazing smile and warm handshake.

Yep.  I do.  What I want to know, is, how did he know I am actually on a search to find the five best states in the US for K-12 education and then attempting to cross-reference this information with the top twenty best small towns in which to live???  (For those of you who don't already know, unless God does something major in the next three or so years, I will have to go back to work and the children will have to attend government school.  Rather than stick my head in the sand for now, I am doing some serious research to see where God might have us move to next...)

Well, if this is the case, Kay, why are wasting your money on this trip?  Because the money I am spending won't stop the inevitable.  Yes, it would slow it down perhaps another six months or so, but it IS coming, nonetheless.  This dream Bill and I had, of taking the children out West in 2002, was a very serious wish.  The only one we actually had on the burner, all these years. 

I have no regrets.

Besides.  You should see my hair!
With love from Montana,

Kay